by A. C. Bextor
Nope. I have no idea what she means. I’m not sure I want to know either. If ‘Sty’ resembles any of these men soundly sleeping, I’d advise Sunny to beat feet. Maybe even escort her myself to the next train out of this mess.
Sunny is gorgeous. Model gorgeous. Her hair is platinum blonde, wavy, and long past her shoulders. Her eyes are blue, but a stunning light blue just outside their dark centers. She’s also wearing a Saint’s Justice tank top that fits just right, complementing her generously sized chest.
Sunny smiles brightly, her full lips naturally red and her cheekbones high. She’s a complete contrast to those others who are laying on top the men in the other room.
“Hi, honey,” she calls. “El said you’d be coming in.”
El?
“Elevent,” Cricket fills in. “He’s this chapter’s prez. He said either me or Sunny would train you.”
“Train me?” I question back. “What am I training for?”
I remember the name Elevent; Myra described him as ‘the shit,’ but she never mentioned I’d be working for him. Or working at all, really. Not even that I’d be here long enough to need a job.
Sunny’s smile drops, and a string of quiet colorful curses follows. Her friendly expression disappears as she pulls a phone out from beneath the bar. She lifts it toward her face and starts to angry dial. Her fingernails crash across the screen. Then she brings it to her ear.
“Oh hell,” Cricket chides, turning to me and resting her hand on my arm. “You didn’t know.”
Nope. I didn’t. Yet, another surprise.
“Know what?”
“El doesn’t let any of the brothers, old ladies, or anyone else live on Saint’s property without pitching in. Vlad insisted you’re to be treated as one of us. And well, here we are. He also did say no dirty work.”
There’s that damn name again. Vlad.
If I were a braver person, I would’ve had a word with him myself before I was demanded to end my not-so-passionate relationship with Toby. The man I’m missing more than I ever thought I would. At this point, I’d take Toby’s boring over the shock and awe of being here.
“Um,” I murmur, for lack of anything else to say. Except maybe, Thank you, Vlad for no ‘dirty’ work.
Cricket winks as she answers, “Behind the bar is the safest place for you to be anyway.”
Happy to hear the word safe in any term, I agree, “All right. I can work. I’ll do whatever.”
“Good! Then we’ll have no problems,” Sunny sets her phone down and charges around the bar. At my side, her eyes peruse my body, head to toe, before a small smile crosses her lips. “I’ll start your training tomorrow. We can talk about clothes then, too. The afternoons are typically slow. The girls and I can take you later this week. You’ll need new ones for work.”
What?
Looking down at my pale pink, one-piece dress, dotted in dainty ivory ribbons, I stand confused. This is one of my favorites. The thick strap ties around my neck and the length falls past mid thigh. There’s nothing wrong with this dress. Other than maybe wearing it in colder weather, but still.
There’s nothing wrong with this dress!
“You’re gorgeous, honey,” Sunny quietly compliments, noticing my hesitation. “But this isn’t your church. This is a motorcycle club.”
“Yeah?” I snap, overly harsh. I bite my lip to keep from saying more, though I really want to explain how many differences there are from my church, or the general population of middle-class citizens.
“And this…” Cricket interrupts, pointing to another woman on the left, sitting atop a stool. The woman turns in place, eyes me up and down as Sunny did, before Cricket continues, “This is Lane. She’s kind of with Elevent.”
“I’m am Elevent’s,” Lane irately corrects, casting Cricket a heated glare. She holds her hand out in a flimsy manner for me to accept. As I do, she adds, “If you know what I mean.”
Again. I don’t know what this means. Nor can I say I care.
Lane has long, dark hair similar to mine. She’s also about my height and I’d guess my age, as well. She’s not dressed as conservatively as Sunny, though. And she isn’t nearly as friendly or welcoming. She’s sneering at me, and if I’m right, she’s also cursing under her breath.
“Stop it. You’re scaring her,” Cricket defends, pushing her way between Lane and me, before turning her attention to another woman, who looks a lot like the girl sitting next to her—but still different.
“These two are our in-house twins. Jizzy and Joz.”
Jizzy nods, offers wave of her hand, and a quiet, “Hello.”
Her hair is red, her eyes green. With her fair freckled skin and shy smile, she exudes kindness. The epitome of the girl next door.
Joz stares as if she’s at a loss for words. When she doesn’t move, her twin nudges her and she pushes out a forced, “Hey.”
Where Jizzy seems soft and ginger sweet, Joz is hard with thick, dyed ebony hair. Jizzy’s smile is warm and inviting. Joz’s is not. A person like me, outside this club, would never come to the conclusion they were sisters, let alone twins.
“Come on,” Cricket calls, pulling at my arm and dragging me toward a door near the back. “Let’s see if lunch is ready so we can eat. After, we can get you settled in.”
We round the kitchen, which is a long room, fitted with oversized industrial appliances and a small rectangle window looking out to where we entered. The floors are clean, tiled in big red squares. White countertops line the work area with several gadgets set neatly on top.
The eating space is clean so at least there’s that.
Against the opposite wall sits a small table, where a young, sweet-looking man is settled. He’s looking in our direction and smiling. He’s wearing a Red Sox baseball hat and a black vest. When he tilts his head up further, his full red lips smile wider. He’s clutching a toothpick between his teeth. He moves it from one side of his mouth to the other, as he considers every stitch of my favorite dress.
“This is Vante,” Cricket introduces. “Devante Crane if you’re pissed at him. And believe me, sister, there will come a time when you’re pissed at him.”
Vante’s dimples on both cheeks dig deep, showing off his straight white teeth. His eyes are an equal mix of brown and hazel. His dark blond hair is cropped short. He’s big, but lean. His arms stretch the sleeves of his tee shirt, as he casually removes the toothpick and brings a beer bottle to his mouth. He’s the first good-looking man I’ve seen since we entered the front door. And by watching him, I’ve lost focus.
Shit.
When he drops the bottled beer on the table and clears this throat, I find my voice and probe, “You’re a member here?”
“Vante doesn’t look like much,” Cricket interrupts. “But he’s kind of a badass when he wants to be.”
Vante picks up an empty plastic glass from the table and hurls it our way. Cricket laughs when it misses her head. I don’t find it nearly as funny as it misses mine.
“He handles a lot of the prospects and possible recruits,” she notes further.
All this would be interesting if I understood half of what’s being explained, but I don’t, so I give a nod, coupled with an, “I see,” instead.
“Just got back from a ride,” he explains to Cricket.
A ride sounds nice. I’m not familiar with a club itself, but I’ve always wanted to ride a Harley.
“Any luck?” Cricket returns.
Shaking his head, he looks to his bottle and says, “Nope. I’m tired as fuck. Missed the meeting regarding her…” He tips the head of the drink toward me and finishes, “So I’m guessing we have a new guest.”
“We do!” Cricket excites. “So, be nice.”
“Cricket,” Vante calls. “Your new friend isn’t looking so hot.”
Cricket turns to me and truly pays attention for the first time since we arrived. Her smile falls and her expression is no longer animated about showing me around. She looks a little hurt.
Cutting her off, I lift my hand and insist, “I’m okay. Maybe just a little tired. Can you show me where I’ll be staying?”
“Where will she be staying?” Vante questions, his tone not angry, but abrupt, nonetheless. “’Cause when Elevent filled me in on what was up, he never mentioned our new member looks like she does.”
New member? No.
Look like she does? Now what does that mean?
“Stop with the attitude.” Cricket releases me and advances toward him. I can only see her back, but as small as she is, she packs a lot of power in her tone. “You’re not making her feel welcome.”
Vante takes hold of Cricket’s advice and shrinks back in his seat. “Sorry, Mia,” he states evenly. “It’s just—”
“She’ll be here for a while and she’s taking the room next to mine,” Cricket boasts.
Good to know.
Seemingly satisfied with Cricket’s response, Vante’s gaze turns to mine. “If you need anything, and Cricket’s not around, you let me know.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
“And if anyone here gives you trouble, you let me know that, too.”
“Imma give her hell, Vante,” a small, but very energetic voice claims, rushing in from another door off the kitchen. “And she’s gonna love it.”
“Oh shit,” Cricket giggles through her reply.
The voice comes from small, African-American boy, who can’t be a day older than ten, striding casually into the room. He’s wearing a black leather vest, sans any patches, and worn out, light blue jeans. He’s also wearing black high-tops without full laces, along with a wicked grin that screams trouble.
When he reaches me standing next to Cricket, his playful grin widens. He crosses his skinny arms over his chest, where he gives a teasing but practiced wink.
“What’s with the new hot chick?” he asks.
Before I can answer, Cricket does. “Joziah, this is Mia. She’ll be staying with us for a little while.”
Joziah laughs.
“You’re staying here?” he questions, eyes wide and pointing to the ground. “As in, the club?”
“Yes!” Cricket snaps, exasperated once again.
“Shoo,” Joziah exhales. “I mean, shit, does Elevent know?”
“Mouth!” Vante barks, sitting up in his chair and shoving one hand into Joziah’s back. “And keep a mind to your own business.”
Joziah ignores the irritated demand and turns back to me. In a rich but good-natured manner, he takes a small step back, sucks in his bottom lip, and moves his eyes over my body again. This time slowly and deliberately—all the way up and back down.
The dress I once loved suddenly feels like a two-piece, polka-dot bikini. My sister swore I’d be safe here, these men risking their lives to protect me. I hadn’t remembered was they were still men and nothing like what either of us were used to. For God sake’s, this is a child and he’s making me uncomfortable.
Joziah shakes his head, then states, “She’s a sweet piece.”
Oh, my God. What?
Cricket laughs. Vante doesn’t. I say nothing. I’ve never been flirtatiously perused by a boy his age.
As I think of how to quietly challenge the wayward preteen, I don’t find the heart to scold him. He’s no longer looking at me as a pretend predator, but he’s smiling up with endearment.
“You’re playing with me,” I assume.
“She’s a sweet piece, and she’s smart. Aces!” Joziah comes back with another beam.
“Ziah, what in the fuckin’ hell are you doin’ out here?” a gruff voice enters, its tone gentle, albeit, somewhat exhausted.
All heads turn to an older man, who might look older than he truly is. His gray hair is long, held back in a leather knot at the back of his head. He has a big, round belly and a pair of black suspenders he likely needs. He’s also wearing a black vest like Vante, his name stitched on the leather as “Pyke.” Beneath the name it says, “Enforcer.”
Good manners wheedle me to hold back a laugh. I don’t know much about this place, but if someone were granted the name, Enforcer, I’d expect them to be bigger. And younger. And maybe less approachable.
When his bright blue eyes find mine, a smile crosses to his crusty lips as though he read my mind. Cricket leaves my side for the first time and rushes to Pyke. Standing on her tiptoes, she kisses his cheek gently, and he wraps his big beefy arms around her to squeeze her tight. She giggles and he closes his eyes in appreciation.
So sweet. And, dare I assume, normal.
“This is my best friend, Pyke,” Ziah, as I now know him, tells me. “He’s cool to me, but he’s like the grumpy, old grandpa to the rest of the brothers.”
Reaching out and resting his hand on top of the boy’s head, Pyke smiles. The two are cute together, so different but made as if they belong.
“I’m not grumpy,” the old man corrects, offering me a nod in greeting. “But I am tired of chasin’ his ass all over the goddamn place.”
“This is my new woman, Pyke,” Ziah claims in all seriousness. “Her name is Mia. Pretty, ain’t she?” He gleams, his teeth bright against his mocha skin.
“She ain’t your woman any more than you’re a member of this club,” Pyke stiffly scolds. “Until you grow hair on your nut sac, you don’t get a choice of pussy or member vest.”
Well, there goes that.
Ziah’s dark skin stains with a blush. He tilts his head up to scowl deeply at the old man.
“Well, Mia,” Pyke greets. “You’re definitely as pretty as I suspected you’d be.”
Now I blush. His compliment seems genuine.
“Nice to meet you too, Pyke,” I utter, looking down.
“Reckon you’ll be all kinds of trouble,” he notes next. “At least ‘til the boys get used to you bein’ here.” He shakes his head. “Haven’t enjoyed watchin’ them fall over themselves since Sunny showed up.”
With her name, I understand and accept the compliment with silence. Sunny’s pretty and very nice.
“No doubt it’ll be interestin’ to watch the men havin’ to handle themselves in front ‘a you,” he says next. He shrugs. “But then again, it’ll be more fun havin’ you around to give ‘em a run for their money.”
“He likes you,” Ziah says, lifting his thumb, aiming it toward Pyke.
“Come on,” Pyke insists, taking both Ziah’s shoulders and turning him toward the door. “You have chores to get done and I have a nap to take.”
“You ruin everything,” Ziah pouts back as any kid would.
“Tell Trouble goodbye for now,” Pyke returns, not bothering to look back. “You can see to her later.”
“Bye, Mama Mia,” Ziah chides, turning in place and trying to get a look past Pyke’s big belly. “Catch you later.”
“Later, Ziah,” I bid my new, and now favorite, friend here goodbye.
When I turn back to Cricket, she’s smiling ear to ear.
Vante’s haunting voice interrupts the jovial conversation. “Get Mia to her room and do it quick like. Brothers are rollin’ in.”
Cricket agrees by grabbing my hand and giving it a mild tug. “Boys are home from a ride. And they’re gonna be hungry.”
The roar of bikes comes from far away, but it’s closing distance. The floor vibrates as they draw closer.
We’re standing in the kitchen, sure. But I’m assuming the boys on those bikes are well, capable, and old enough to feed themselves, I think but don’t say.
Walking with Cricket toward a flight of stairs off the kitchen, a door from another small room opens. A mudroom.
Same as the kitchen, it’s fitted with industrial-sized appliances. A large black washer and dryer sit against the wall. On the opposite side are shelves holding canned goods and other cooking supplies. The floor is littered with shoes and boots of all shapes and sizes.
Loud male voices soon invade the small space. The smell o
f leather mixed with exhaust closes in. And the sound of trekking footsteps comes barreling through.
One by one, without a word, men in black vests and body tattoos walk past both Cricket and myself. A few of them steal a glance in my direction, but say nothing. A couple stop in front of us and just as I fear they’ll maybe pay me notice, they don’t. Instead, each lean in to kiss Cricket on the cheek.
They must’ve done this same thing a thousand times before.
Then one menace of man, with a bun crowning the top of his head, stops dead in front of me. He sizes me up and down as Ziah did, but his gaze isn’t sweet. It’s rustic and evil. The devil’s mark deep within. He licks his lips, as if baiting a reaction. When he’s satisfied I’ve nothing to say, he takes one more step, stopping in front of Cricket.
My mouth falls open and I stagger back a single step, the top of my head hitting the shelf above.
Cricket shrieks but with a smile as the large man grabs a fist full of her hair, forcing her head back. Twisting her long, curly locks in his hand, he opens his mouth to hers and drives his tongue in deep.
Holy heaven and goodness.
With his other hand, he reaches around, grabbing her ass tightly in his grasp. She moans as they twist and wrestle in a heated embrace. With the force of his intentions, Cricket’s back slams against the wall when he shoves his knee between her legs. She whimpers, but not from pain.
His hand massages her chest, groping and fumbling the material. The other pulls her hair harder, punishingly so. A menacing growl explodes from this throat and I startle.
Then, just as suddenly as he latched on to her, he abruptly sets her free.
He licks his lips as a crude smirk turns up their corners. In a gravelly, albeit sexy voice, he claims, “Fuck you right now, if you’d let me.”
Cricket, not missing a beat, presses her hand to his chest. “We have company.”
“Fuck you in front of company, if you’d let me,” he quickly corrects, biting her bottom lip again and again.
“Later,” she tells him, lifting to her toes, where again, he kisses her with near violence.
Jesus Christ.
